The Night Chicago Burned
by Tracy Diane Miller
Summary: Gary discovers that the invisible thread of time connects the past to the present.
1. Default Chapter

The Night Chicago Burned  
  
Summary: Gary discovers that the invisible thread of time connects the past to the present. This very short story was inspired by "Hot Time in the Old Town."  
  
Disclaimer: Early Edition characters belong to whomever created them. No copyright infringement intended. No profit is being made. Some of the dialogue that appears in this story is not my own, but belongs to the writer of the Early Edition episode "Hot Time in the Old Town."  
  
Author: Tracy Diane Miller E-mail address: tdmiller82@hotmail.com  
  
The Night Chicago Burned  
  
Chicago, 1871  
  
As flames painted the ebony sky, the scene was reminiscent of another pivotal moment in time where a different city had also burned and a proud legacy of gentility had been swept away with the howling winds. On that night, Atlanta had crumbled to its knees, humiliated and whipped into submission by Sherman's forces. Those conquerors had ravaged homes as the spoils of war. It was a night that had witnessed the mass exodus of Southerners as a powerful conflagration swallowed the city. And it was a night for which those who had survived would never forget; a memory indelibly imprinted on the brain and passed on throughout generations as a tale of lost glory and innocence.  
  
But tonight, the fire that licked Chicago buildings and homes would not be remembered as a byproduct of war. Instead, history would blame this destruction on Mrs. O'Leary's cow.  
  
Gary stopped the stranger driving a horse-drawn wagon. A moment later, the man agreed to the hero's request to take Jesse and Eleanor away from the burning city.  
  
"We can find you if we get in trouble again?" Jesse asked Gary.  
  
"Jesse, I'm just passing through. I..."  
  
"Sure." Was the young boy's response, disappointment evident in his tone.  
  
"Listen, I wish I could make everything right, but I can't do that."  
  
A brief silence.  
  
"Listen, here. Jesse, look you take this. Go ahead. I want you to have that." Gary said as he handed Jesse his pocket watch.  
  
Jesse took the watch. He rubbed his finger over the timepiece in an almost reverent gesture. "You sure, mister?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm sure." Gary said. "And don't give up. Do you understand what I'm saying? 'Cause if you do, I'm going to know. Don't give up."  
  
Gary watched as the wagon carrying Jesse and Eleanor towards their destinies disappeared into the night.  
  
******  
  
Chicago, 1998  
  
Last night, while he slept, they wouldn't leave him alone. As the moon quietly observed, they had emerged to torment him. They had prowled around his brain and had invaded his subconscious without remorse. And like the vengeful scavengers that they were, they had fed upon his sanity and had left confusion in their wake.  
  
Nightmares.  
  
They were hungry, aggressive, and merciless pursuers. Soon, the voices had visited him. The sounds were faint, yet he could still hear them very clearly. These voices had whispered from the darkness before the faces had appeared to him like restless ghosts craving recognition. Morris. Sullivan. Eleanor. Jesse. They were the names and faces that belonged to another time and place.  
  
But the sensations were the worst. Fire. An angry explosion of colors followed by a cloth of smoke blanketing a vulnerable sky. His heart pounding as he desperately began beating the stubborn flames in a vain attempt to subdue them. Smoke filling his lungs and suffocating him. And finally, the impatient fire waiting no more as the flames tasted his flesh. Then...  
  
"Good morning, Chicago. It's 6:30 and..."  
  
"Meow." Thump.  
  
He woke up.  
  
In a trance-like fashion, his hand slapped the radio turning off the offending device. Ignoring Cat's plea, Gary lay in bed for a moment. A thick layer of perspiration coated his sweatshirt before making an uncharted journey down his chest. His heart continued pounding forcefully seemingly unable to process that the nightmare had ended. And his head was equally unresponsive; the hero's heart had communicated his fears and now his head was throbbing. His entire body appeared rebellious to his desire for calm. Gary couldn't remember when a dream had affected him so deeply.  
  
He tried reassuring himself by silently repeating that what he had just experienced was only a nightmare, a figment of his imagination that couldn't hurt him. None of what he had seen or felt in that dream was real. He had never visited Chicago during the time of the Great Fire. Time travel was just...it was just some perverse H.G. Wells' science fiction fantasy. There was no invisible portal, no time and space ripple linking the past to the present.  
  
And he wasn't a kid anymore. He didn't need to be afraid of shadows on the wall that he thought were clever monsters poised to strike.  
  
There was no such thing as time travel. Right?  
  
Still, yesterday he had tried explaining to Chuck and Marissa what he believed had happened to him. He told his friends about Morris and Eleanor, how these denizens of the nineteenth century bore an uncanny resemblance to them and about Sullivan who was a dead ringer for Trotter. He told them about Jesse, about the talented and resourceful young boy trying to find his way in a cold and heartless society. And he told them about how he had tried stopping Chicago from burning that fateful night over one hundred years ago.  
  
Gary felt frustrated when Chuck not only looked at him disbelievingly but had also acted as if he were a child weaving a tall tale as a bid for attention. And Marissa...well, even she hadn't believed him and she had always been much more willing to accept the unexplainable on faith alone. Both of them had insisted that when he hit his head on the ground at that construction site that he must have dreamed the whole thing during the time that he was rendered unconscious.  
  
Perhaps, he too would have been content to dismiss all of this as some injury-induced delusion and bury it deep within the recesses of his brain, but there were still some unanswered questions. Gary knew that neither Jesse Mayfield IV nor that familiar pocket watch that the young man sported and had proudly revealed as an heirloom from his great-grandfather was a dream.  
  
"Meow!" Cat's cry was insistent now. Fortunately, Gary's agitated body had finally settled. A moment later, he arose from the bed and proceeded to the door. He knew that he had a responsibility for preventing the future disasters that awaited him. The Great Fire, a unique moment in Chicago's history, had already happened. He didn't have the time for obsessing whether or not he had been a part of it. The past had already taken care of itself. He needed to take care of the future even if it did come to him a day early.  
  
Gary opened the door. Cat seemed to stare at him intently for a moment then let out one last and arguably annoyed "meow" for being kept waiting. The feline strutted into the room like some self-absorbed diva commanding the stage on opening night. Gary reached down, picked up the Paper, and closed the door.  
  
The front page was blissfully silent; only mundane headlines greeted him. Cautiously, he began flipping through the pages. If the early edition were a person, one might have suspected that today The Paper too was exhausted from always shouldering such a heavy burden and wanted to relax. It looked as if it was going to be a "quiet" day with a half-dozen slip and falls scattered at different times throughout the city. Sure, he was going to be busy, but none of the saves was life-threatening. His first save, at 8:00 a.m., would involve preventing a woman from slipping on some spilled orange juice in the lobby nearby the directory by the elevators of an office building on Wacker.  
  
He took a quick shower. After selecting a pair of jeans and a white turtleneck sweater, Gary grabbed his leather jacket and left the loft. Breakfast this morning would consist of only a cup of strong, black coffee. Maybe this was unfair subsistence for a body that had endured what he had yesterday, but the thought of food at this moment lacked appeal for him.  
  
Time proceeded at a frenzied pace and before Gary knew it, he was on his way to his first save. Traffic was congested this morning as Gary sat in the cab so it took him nearly a half-hour to reach Wacker. The air already reeked with an odor of impatience and rudeness as a number of people pushed and shoved their way through crowded pavements to reach their destinations. The rat race never seemed to stop its dizzying run along the never-ending corporate wheel. To stop, to even slow down, meant that a younger, hungrier person was always willing and ready to take your place on the wheel. There was a reason why cash was cold and hard. It was because the desire to achieve it at any cost often meant sacrificing the warmth of human kindness.  
  
Gary never understood that. His "American Dream" was never about material rewards nor social accolades. The "American Dream" he desired was the stuff of fairy tales; he craved a loving wife and healthy and happy children. Making money was only about providing a comfortable home for his family not accumulating things that he didn't need.  
  
Entering the lobby of the office building, he was immediately filled with disgust as the memories flooded back to him. This building was like so many others in Chicago, in big cities all across the country. It reminded him of his days working at Strauss and Associates. A cold, gray, sterile prison where human emotion was left at the front door like wiping one's feet on a welcoming mat. Except there was no welcoming mat in the corporate jungle. Perfectly manicured, double-breasted suits (some designer name), expensive leather shoes and briefcases confirmed the illusion of success. But were these people happy? Gary wondered. They didn't look happy.  
  
Gary was shook from his musings by the appearance of a young woman just entering the building through the revolving doors. She proceeded towards the elevators. The woman seemed oblivious to the impending danger.  
  
Gary spied the spilled orange juice. With the agility of a panther, the hero sprung into action and caught the woman just as her pumps made contact with the substance and she started to fall. She was dazed but unhurt. She thanked him and impulsively rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek. A few moments later, the elevator had arrived. The young woman stepped in and disappeared to her destination.  
  
Gary removed The Paper from the back pocket of his jeans. As expected, a story about an upcoming school board meeting replaced this particular slip and fall. He put The Paper back into his pocket and walked towards the revolving doors ready to leave the building. He stopped when he spotted the young man who had just entered the building. The well-dressed African- American wore an Armani suit with a comfortable familiarity; yet pretension didn't seem to be a part of his attire.  
  
Gary realized that the man was Jesse Mayfield IV. Maybe there was a reason that The Paper had sent him here to this office building. Maybe it had to do with more than preventing a woman from slipping on some orange juice. Yesterday, was a mystery to him. Last night, he wrestled with nightmares. Perhaps today he would have some answers.  
  
"Excuse me? Mr. Mayfield?" Gary called out to the man.  
  
Jesse turned around to face the caller. Gary approached him. "Gary Hobson. We met yesterday."  
  
"Of course, Mr. Hobson. Nice to see you." Jesse extended his hand. Gary accepted the handshake. "And I want to thank you again for your help yesterday."  
  
"It was nothing. I...ah...I..just...you're welcome." Gary stammered.  
  
A brief silence.  
  
"Mr. Mayfield, I was wondering...do you have a few minutes? I want to talk to you about something."  
  
"Sure. What do you want to talk about?" Jesse asked puzzled.  
  
Gary hesitated briefly before responding. "Your great-grandfather." Gary said cryptically.  
  
The End. 


	2. Chapter 2 Proud Legacy

Proud Legacy  
  
Summary: Gary learns that the past isn't an ending, but a beginning in this continuation of "The Night Chicago Burned".  
  
Disclaimer: Early Edition characters belong to whomever created them. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made.  
  
Author: Tracy Diane Miller E-mail address: tdmiller82@hotmail.com  
  
I dedicate this story to my mother, Arlene Miller, my role model and champion.  
  
Special thanks to Vickie Jo for her wonderful suggestions for this story.  
  
Proud Legacy  
  
For a moment, his words lingered undisturbed in the air. If silence was a blessing, then he wondered what effect the answers would have on him. Would the truth offer quiet, calm, or would such knowledge awaken more turmoil? Maybe he didn't want to know. Maybe he needed to know. Maybe it had never been his choice.  
  
He was about to find out.  
  
"My great-grandfather?" Jesse asked, confusion etched on his face.  
  
"Yeah, I...um...you see...I..ah...I'm a historian. I mean, it's not my job or anything. I'm what you might call a closet historian. It's kinda like a hobby, a fascination of mine, you see. You mentioned yesterday about how your pocket watch belonged to your great-grandfather and was given to him by the stranger who saved his life in the Great Fire. I'm just curious about learning more." Gary explained.  
  
A brief silence.  
  
"It was just a story passed down in my family. I'm not even sure how much of it is true. You know how it is with family stories." Jesse said.  
  
"I'd still like to hear it. Please?"  
  
Jesse studied Gary intently for a moment. Something about this request seemed odd to the younger man. There was urgency in Gary's voice. But Jesse also saw something else, a desperate gleam dancing fitfully in those mud green eyes. Still, what harm could there be in sharing a small piece of his family's history with this man?  
  
"Why don't you come upstairs to my office? We'll have more privacy to talk there." Jesse suggested.  
  
Gary nodded. The men crossed through the lobby and headed towards the elevators. As a familiar bell and the door to the contrivance opened signaling the arrival of one of the cars, Gary and Jesse entered the elevator. As the car began to rise, Gary felt a slight pang in his gut. The hero's stomach churned violently, the byproduct of nervousness and anticipation seemingly engaged in a restless waltz inside his body. Why couldn't he just dismiss what had happened yesterday as a dream? He had suffered a blow and had been rendered unconscious at that construction site. The tragedy that the Paper had predicted was of the same magnitude as the Chicago Fire with the potential for countless loss of life. It wasn't inconceivable that his brain would have cast him as a player in this historical tale of doom with the images and sounds so frighteningly real that he believed that he had actually lived through them. But there was no such thing as time travel. The past was but a wrinkle of a memory in the crease of time ironed out as the present took control; yet, this memory belonged to a generation of souls that had already departed the Earth, their lives and stories carefully preserved in the annals of history. It wasn't his memory...it couldn't have been.  
  
No one else was in the elevator at the moment as Jesse pushed the button for the fifteenth floor. The elevator appeared to stop on every other floor to usher in or out a cargo of frenzied people rushing to the business of their professional lives. The slow, but deliberate movement of the elevator, like a steady and determined rhythm of a heartbeat, only served to heighten Gary's anticipation and nervousness. His own heart was pounding now. A part of him wanted answers. He was certain that the Paper had brought him to this place today for more than just a save. The Paper had brought him here for answers  
  
Yet, there was another part of him that wondered whether he was about to open up his own Pandora's box and unleash a fury of new questions without answers. He'd had enough of them dealing with a magical newspaper whose origins remained a mystery. What did he expect to learn from Jesse Mayfield IV? Or, more importantly, what would be the consequences of such knowledge?  
  
The hero's internal struggle was interrupted by the sound of the bell heralding the elevator's arrival at their destination. The moment Gary stepped off the elevator his eyes spied the reception area with a sign in golden lettering with the name "Mayfield Construction" blazing on the wall above the receptionist's desk. Gary followed Jesse the short walk through the reception area and another door that connected to the interior offices. A spacious office nestled a few feet from the reception area boasted a sign on the door that read "J. Mayfield, President". Jesse walked into the office with Gary in tow.  
  
The office possessed a quiet elegance. The wooden-paneled walls were overflowing with degrees, pictures, and letters of commendation. A Bachelor of Science Degree in Engineering (Magna Cum Laude) was joined by an MBA from the Wharton School of Business. The numerous letters of commendation from civic organizations were surrounded by pictures that Jesse had taken with the local business and political elite. A large, black leather chair was behind the desk. Facing the desk were two smaller, black leather chairs. The desk appeared to be of solid oak, a handsome piece of furniture that looked both sturdy and formidable. Situated on the desk, in silver- plated frames were photos of Jesse's greatest "treasures"- his wife and daughter. Another photo of Arlene Mayfield showed the ten-year-old girl decked out in her equestrian splendor while seated on a chestnut gelding.  
  
"My family". Jesse confirmed when he saw Gary staring at the pictures.  
  
"You have a beautiful family. You're a very lucky man." Gary said sincerely.  
  
Jesse smiled. "Yes, I know. Thank you."  
  
A brief silence.  
  
"My secretary hasn't arrived yet. May I offer you something? Coffee?"  
  
"No, thanks."  
  
Jesse proceeded towards his desk and sat down in his chair. "Please, have a seat."  
  
Gary sat on one of the chairs facing the desk. "So, Mr. Hobson, are you going to tell me your secret?"  
  
A look of sheer panic crossed Gary's face. "Howzat?"  
  
"Your secret. Mr. Fishman told me that you said that Trotter had the wrong geological surveys. If construction had continued...if that pylon had been dropped and with the combination of the heavy rains and probable flooding, well, I don't even want to think about what could have happened if Mr. Fishman hadn't notified me. Your friend is quite a persuasive man. I'm just curious as to how you knew."  
  
Gary rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. "Well...I...ah...I run a bar, McGinty's, on Illinois and...ah...anyway, a couple of guys came in and they were talking and I kinda figured out from what they were saying that there was a problem." Gary explained. Gary prayed that his explanation sounded plausible.  
  
Jesse studied Gary for a moment. "Well, I owe you a debt of gratitude. I'm a businessman, Mr. Hobson. I want to make a profit, but not at the expense of the safety of the people of Chicago. Trotter knows his work, but this isn't the first time that I've butted heads with him. I think that sometimes he forgets that he works for me and not the other way around."  
  
Gary heard a familiar chime as Jesse removed the pocket watch from his breast pocket. "It's a very nice watch." Gary said.  
  
"My father gave it to me when I graduated from high school. Said that it had been passed down in our family. That it was special...it had a special history."  
  
"Because your great-grandfather received it from the stranger who saved his life the night of the Great Fire?" Gary probed.  
  
"Yes. I always thought that it was just a story I was told since I was a little boy. Whenever I complained about doing my homework, my mother would tell me that I should be ashamed of myself. She'd say that I was lucky that I could have an education. Then, she'd tell me about how my great- grandfather was born into slavery, learned how to read in a time when it was dangerous for black people to have that kind of knowledge, and ended up going to college. Daddy would show me the watch and tell me the story of my ancestors. Jesse and his sister Eleanor were from South Carolina. There had been four Mayfield children but their older brothers had been sold to another family and they were never seen again. Somehow, Jesse and Eleanor managed to stay together. After the Civil War, they left Charleston and moved to Chicago. Too many blacks down South were sharecroppers and I guess Eleanor wanted a better life for them. I guess that she figured that Jesse was smart, that he could be somebody, that he could have a real future. And my grandfather told me that people said that Eleanor had a voice that was...that came directly from God. It was so powerful, made you feel something. She had the talent to be a great singer."  
  
Gary listened attentively.  
  
"Anyway, life in Chicago wasn't much easier for them than Charleston had been. They took whatever jobs they could to survive. I guess that it was easy to get discouraged. Then, the Great Fire happened...and you know, what's funny, my grandfather said that that tragedy ended up being a blessing him and Eleanor. The stranger who saved Jesse's life believed in him and that made him believe in himself. After they left Chicago, they ended up in New York. Years later, Jesse went to Howard University and became an engineer. He and my grandfather founded this company. I guess he never forgot almost dying in that fire and he wanted to give something back."  
  
"And Eleanor? What happened to her?"  
  
"She never made it as a singer in this country. She moved to Europe when Jesse was in college. I'm not sure what happened to her after that. I don't know if Jesse ever saw her again."  
  
For the next few moments, Gary continued listening as Jesse relayed more of his family's history. And the hero understood. The Paper had somehow sent him into the past, but not to change the history that was inscribed in the books, but to save the life and give hope to an industrious young boy who was but an inconsequential footnote.  
  
Except he wasn't. Jesse Mayfield had left a proud legacy.  
  
The End. 


End file.
